


the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails

by kalimero



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Caleb is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 22:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6678163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalimero/pseuds/kalimero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are rumors, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluenorth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluenorth/gifts).



 

_the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails_

_you don’t wanna hurt yourself_

_by looking too closely_

\--- fink [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoWRs7lXtYE)]

_*_

There are rumors, of course. Insidious whispers, designed to disparage an opponent the only way men know how: by denying his virility. By claiming that he prefers the company of men over women in the only way that is not endorsed. By openly mocking that which is quietly tolerated so long as no one breathes a word of it.

Ben has heard it all before. He will hear it again. He pays no attention to it. (Unless someone dares to say it to his face. Then they will get punched.)

And the rumors don’t concern him anyway. They concern the General; and the General is above reproach.

So he merely blinks when Caleb decides to broach the subject. They are alone in the tent. The others are outside by the fire. It’s a cold night.

“You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Caleb suddenly asks, disrupting their comfortable silence, albeit quietly.

“Tell you what?” Ben answers with an air of innocence as if it hadn’t just been knocked out of his lungs. Something in him constricts because Caleb knows him better than he knows himself and if he is saying something, then there must be something to it, right? Whatever that something is. (Certainly not the thoughts that keep invading his mind at these ungodly hours.)

Ben stares at the book that he was reading, straining his eyes in the darkness. Then he blinks. That is all.

“Ah, well that’s the question, isn’t it?” Caleb smiles mischievously but there is something else underlying his glee, something a lot more serious. Worry.

For a moment, Ben is tempted to push an angry _What are you talking about?_ through his teeth but that would only prove that there is something worth fighting over. And there isn’t. So he resumes reading, shivering underneath his blanket. What else is there to say?

Caleb watches him for a while before breaking into a short exasperated laugh, shaking his head. Ben catches it from the corner of his eye.

“So,” his friend starts again once he has sobered, “how is old Georgie?”

There are too many ways to respond to this, all of them revealing, and Caleb must have known it. _He is not old_. _Don’t call him that_. _You should show more respect for your commander-in-chief_. _Why are you asking me this_?

Instead he goes with:

“You saw him at the meeting today, remember? Sometimes I worry about those hits to your head.”

“I didn’t play cards with him.”

Ben takes a deep breath and finally puts his book down. He knows where this is going. But it’s too late to go back, so he sits up and turns around to face Caleb.

“You never play cards with anyone. You cheat.”

“Yeah you might be right about those hits because all I can remember is winning. Against you. All the time.”

“Caleb, is this about the… the brothel?”

“Is it?”

“Look, I didn’t want to come with you because-“

“Because he asked you to play cards with him.”

Now Ben is the one shaking his head in disbelief, adding a slow “yes” as if to ask why this is even a point of discussion. And how is Caleb making it sound like such a sordid affair? They _did_ play cards. So what if they have done so a few times now? It’s hardly a crime. God forbid they become friendly after everything they have been through, especially with the foiled assassination attempt. He would be insane to decline an offer of comradery from General Washington (something that can only serve to further their cause), to accompany Caleb to a brothel instead, an institution that he has very little regard for in any case. This would be quite clear to anyone with a sound mind, right? So why is he teasing him about it? (Ben knows, of course, but he refuses to know.)

“How’d it go?” Caleb asks with sudden, genuine interest, jumping up from his cot and rubbing his hands to get his blood circulating. It really is unbelievably cold. Their breath lingers in the air like fog on lake when the sun hasn’t broken through the clouds yet. Ben straightens himself. Despite the chill descending on him, he can’t help but smile in a way that is both uniquely humble and proud.

“I won.”

“What, he let you win?!”

It is extremely hard for Ben not to take offense at the incredulous tone in Caleb’s voice.

“I’m not that bad!”

Caleb raises his eyebrows, looking fond, sad and amused all at the same time.

“Yeah you are, you really are, Benny-boy.”

Grudgingly, Ben thinks back to the afternoon. To the strategic meeting, the good mood, now that they are gaining ground. The way Washington’s mouth quirked ever so slightly in a smile that is not a smile as it tends to do when he is unable to contain his excitement behind his impenetrable aura of authority that veers into aloofness ever so often. The way he very nearly but not quite joked with him. The glint in his eyes. Then the game. Ben knows that Caleb is wrong. It was the first time that he won and he won fair and square. But, yes, maybe Washington didn’t play as aggressively as he could have. He had been in a good mood. That was all.

“Folks are talkin’ about you. Saying that you’re his favorite.”

They are getting close to it now. The reason that Ben’s stomach is tight with dread. These slanderous lies again, floated by acolytes of some disgruntled rival. What does it matter if he becomes a part of them? (It matters for the same reason that he needs to say a small prayer every night when he closes his eyes. His father is a Reverend after all. He cannot un-know the sin within him although he can live with it.)

“That’s not true,” he laughs without mirth but with conviction. Because it’s not. He is neither a friend to Washington like Hamilton nor a son to him like Lafayette. Which… is the point, he slowly realizes. When his gaze meets Caleb’s, they both know that they know. They both know everything. It’s terrifying. Ben flinches. He has to look away.

“Didn’t think it was. And who cares what some sycophants are spewing, eh?”

Now, they both know that that is not true, not anymore, but Ben is grateful for the deflection. His mind is wandering back to the meeting again, to the way that Washington _did_ value his opinion over those of the others. It can be explained, of course, as something entirely sensible, since it was his ignorance of Ben’s advice, as well as withholding crucial information, that created mistrust in the first place and resulted in poor Nathaniel’s death. Since then Ben has proven his worth enough to have earned this respect. Because it is respect, right? But they are not friends. And Ben feels like they never could be, not truly. There will always be something at the back of his mind, something that he will have to suppress, because it is not proper and decent and would fuel the gossip and eventually, maybe, damage the reputation of the Commander and that is something that he absolutely cannot and will not abide.

“Just… look after yourself,” Caleb adds belatedly, after they have both settled back into their blankets. “You know I’ll always have your back when I’m around but-”

But before he can finish the sentence, fellow soldiers stumble into the tent, asking if they are interrupting something, followed by great laughter. While they ready themselves for sleep, loud and boisterous but also frozen and with a sense of fatality that clings to every man prepared to die in battle, Ben gives Caleb a small nod and smile and Caleb nods back and they leave it at that. It’s not enough and it resolves nothing but it will have to do for the moment. Time and privacy is, as always, lacking.

That night, when Ben drifts in and out of dreams filled with all the things he cannot deny in the darkness of this weakened state, he remembers why he used to ignore the rumors. They remind him of everything that he can never allow himself to have.

 

*

 

There is a dull, throbbing pain in his side, a pain that grows sharper when he opens his eyes and regains consciousness. For a moment, he fears that he has become blind. Shadows are moving around him, cloaked by a veil of haze. Then he blinks and everything shifts into focus. The pain starts to become even more unbearable, but bear it he must. There is no alternative. Sleep is not an option. Not when he sees General Washington standing nearby, talking to a physician in hushed tones. He wants to scream and finds that he can’t. It’s as if his mouth has been sewn shut.

Ben feels an itching all over his face. He knows it all too well, recognizes its familiar stench. Dried blood. The very same that is sticking his clothes to his body; so they haven’t bothered cutting him out of them yet. It’s not his uniform. He was not on duty, was he? No. Yes. Slowly, the memories come flooding back, crashing over him in lone waves. There was a fire. Shots. Redcoats. Burning stacks of hay. A secret mission behind enemy lines. A mission that he failed. It wasn’t his fault but that knowledge does nothing to soothe his guilt. Surely, Washington is here to give him another demotion. Not particularly tactful but maybe he wants to get it over with in case Ben passes away, just to have it on the record. And Ben certainly feels like dying in this very moment. The pain in his side has grown searing, leaving him breathless. He attempts to raise himself, simply because he cannot stand not to move against this agony tearing at him, but this tiny movement is enough to make him gasp out loud, proving that no, his mouth was not sewn shut, it was only closed because he needed to tighten his jaw to brace against the white hot stabs hacking into him from the inside. Now it’s like he has been ripped open, as if the part where he must have been injured has been torn off to leave a freshly gaping, festering wound. Maybe he has ripped something open that was in the process of healing, hard as it is to imagine. Maybe he is going to bleed out now.

Ben struggles to form any coherent thought when he suddenly feels a hand grip onto his hand, steadying him. Washington. The physician is fussing over him on the other side of the bed but Ben can barely turn his head. He wouldn’t want to if he could.

“Major Tallmadge,” the General says with a calm that Ben doesn’t feel. He clings to it. There is something strange in the way his commander is looking at him, his lips pressed into a thin line, his brows slightly creased, as if he is worried. (Why wouldn’t he be worried; that is absolutely normal and appropriate.) There is something else in there, too. Anger, most likely. At Ben, at himself, it’s impossible to tell. He thinks that Washington must be furious with him but then, through his watering eyes and blurring vision, he can see something else and wonders whether it’s a figment of his fevered imagination. He has, in this instant of hanging onto life, a moment of clarity and realizes-

“You have been very brave,” Washington reassures him, cutting through the workings of his deluded mind. Ben nods and swallows against the burning sensation of his flesh shifting underneath the physician’s fingertips. He would have agreed with everything the General could have said. _You have been very foolish_. Yes. _You_ are _very foolish_. Yes.

Washington studies him and Ben would squirm under his intense stare if he weren’t already doing so out of pain. But he holds his gaze for as long as he can, careful not to spill any of the tears that are coating his lashes. At some point he has to throw his head back and stare at the ceiling, the ceiling of a room, he notes absent-mindedly, not a tent. Only the General is housed in a building near their current encampment; his quarters then. Maybe the field hospital was overcrowded. (Maybe.) Didn’t his wife join him while he was away? He remembers a letter. Well, it is only right and will help the morale.

Washington and the physician are talking again, loud enough for him to hear. Something about surgery, whether he will fully recover. The longer they talk, the less he can make out their words, drowned out by the rush of blood coursing through him. There is also a whisper, barely formed from the clay of his epiphany. A hint of Caleb’s voice. Suddenly, he wishes his friend had never said anything.

“Benjamin.”

The General is calling him to attention but it doesn’t sound like a command, it sounds like… Ben doesn’t know. He writhes and notices that Washington is still holding his hand with an iron grip.

“You will survive.”

Now that sounds like a command, although maybe said for his own benefit more than that of the patient. Ben tries to smile and fails. The physician is gone. They are alone. Washington does not leave. Not yet, anyway. Ben wonders how long he will (can) wait. Maybe until he has passed out (passed away). He needs to say it now then, doesn’t he? Whatever that is. (Certainly something to do with the thoughts that keep invading his mind at this inopportune hour.)

It almost seems like the older man expects him to speak because he leans closer. Ben swallows. He is a grown man himself. Everyone treats him like a boy (not the General, not anymore) and maybe he is but no, he is a grown man and he decides that he should have the courage in this life and not the next to commit to himself and all of a sudden he is sure that his father would agree and maybe he always did. So he grabs the lapels of Washington’s uniform and pulls himself up and doesn’t let go, crunching the material with his red-stained hands, shaking from the effort but with strength of desperation to spare. Ben opens his mouth but he doesn’t know where to begin or end. Their faces are so close now. He can see Washington’s eyes narrowing slightly with realization and struggle underneath all that carefully crafted persona of propriety, build on sacrifice and selflessness and everything that no one aspires to and that few transform into something greater than life. To believe in ideals so fully as to become a paragon of ideals is to bargain the memory of your soul for the power to unite and Ben can see it, he can see that the man in front of him has made his decision long ago, that he is willing to be lost to time, so long as his work is not. Ben doesn’t know what that means, he just knows that he knows, and he wants to- he wants to- he is still gasping from the pain and he just knows that he wants to love what he can see, not what the others are seeing. That he wants to serve and die and not just for anyone and not just for the cause. That he wants to devote himself, fully, to the truth in his grasp, made of flesh and bones. That he wants to- that he wants to reach up and kiss- that he wants to touch his lips with his lips, his skin with his lips, worship every part, tear his clothes apart, drag him down and take him apart and share the heat rising into his face and-

Ben is trembling. He tightens his grip. His eyes dart to Washington’s mouth and he begins to pull himself further up, just a fraction, when he feels a heavy hand on his chest, stopping him.

He loosens his grip, slightly, tightens it again but doesn’t move. He knows what he saw. He- the General looks at him with the strangest expression, not quite closed off, not quite anything. But the hand on Ben’s chest speaks.

It says: _Don’t_.

Ben knows that his lips are quivering. But he refuses to calm them. He probably couldn’t if he tried. He refuses to let go, just for a fraction. Then he lowers himself onto the bed again, hissing from the action, half sinking and half pushed by that hand in the most sickeningly gentle way. He feels like he has said too much despite not saying anything at all. Maybe they both have. Washington seems a little flustered if that is possible. Now, the absence of pain becomes unbearable. The wound still hurts, more than that, but somehow it doesn’t hurt enough.

The ceiling is white, decorated with ornate stuccowork, and Ben wonders who lives here when the Continental Army is not occupying it; who would readily give up the luxury to help advance the war efforts. He wonders all of those things and tries not to think of anything else. Somewhere in his mind he recognizes that his commander has said something and he looks at him and nods but doesn’t listen. He probably couldn’t if he tried. Something about wishing him to convalesce soon, about visiting again when time permits, something that would sound generous and benevolent to anyone else but sounds shallow to him.

Ben sees him put on a cape with great flourish to step outside, sees him leaving, feels hot tears burn through the crusted blood on the sides of his face where they run a trail of release. He takes deep breaths, closes his eyes and hopes that sleep will claim him soon.

He hopes that he doesn’t dream.

He is not sure whether it would matter if he did.

 

*

 

When he awakes some time later, Caleb is sitting next to the bed, his complexion a pale grey ash. He breaks into the most joyous smile once he realizes that Ben has opened his eyes. Immediately, he starts talking, cursing him for being so bloody stupid, praising him for completing the mission (which he did, apparently, maybe not a complete failure then), threatening him to never scare him again like that or else. Ben regards him fondly, strangely at ease with himself and the world. Maybe they have given him some laudanum to dull his senses. Whatever they did, it worked. He doesn’t even so much as blink when Caleb mentions Washington and how silent he was when it became clear that something had to have gone awry, how he exploded with anger at someone shortly thereafter over something trivial. Caleb looks at him expectantly but given the lack of reaction, he smoothly changes the subject and gives a report about all the intelligence work Ben has missed. He talks about a visit to Philadelphia. He talks about the weather. (The first fruit trees are in bloom now, Ben can see their floating petals through the window if he strains his neck.) All in all, it is a perfectly amicable conversation, albeit one-sided, and Ben finds the presence of mind to smile and mean it.

It is best not to think of anything else.

It is best not to think of what others are talking about.

And it is best not think of what they are not talking about.


End file.
